


Giving Up the Goose

by freneticfloetry



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Adventures in Goosesitting, Found Family, Gen, Word Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freneticfloetry/pseuds/freneticfloetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Martin's new goose changed MJN's little family. Sometimes for the better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giving Up the Goose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Calliatra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliatra/gifts).



> Set mid-Series 4, between "Uskerty" and "Vaduz." As listeners, we'd gotten so used to Scenes from the Status Quo — Douglas and Martin, Douglas and Carolyn, Carolyn and Arthur, Douglas and Martin and Arthur. I loved the different dynamic we got in Uskerty, how circumstances trapped Douglas with Arthur and Martin with Carolyn. Lots of little insights revealed in those interactions. So setting something in that time frame, especially in light of your preference for Series 4, was exciting. Plus, you know, _Martin with a goose_. That's practically begging for hijinks. 
> 
> TL:DR; I hope you enjoy. :)

**I. Wild Goose Chase**

Most people wouldn't think things could get any worse than being stranded in the middle of nowhere, climbing the tallest tree in sight while it's pissing down rain, getting attacked by an angry swarm of bees, falling out of the aforementioned tree, bumping along a country road in the back of a livestock lorry, having a hungry goose swallow their most prized possession, taking twenty-two tries to find the feathered culprit, and spending the night in an airport pub with an angry CEO, a highly-amused first officer, and _Arthur_ , who, punch-drunk on pineapple juice, had singlehandedly invented charade karaoke.

But this is MJN, and he is Martin Crieff, so things can always get worse.

"C'mon, come _on_." He wrenches at the ignition again. "Just turn over!" The engine lurches and sputters and dies, perhaps out of sheer spite, and Martin sighs, slumps forward, and squarely hits the horn with his forehead.

There comes another honk, this one off to his left, Martin turns toward the passenger seat to glare at his new goose and spots the distinct stride of a familiar figure through the window.

"Douglas!" he calls, scrambling out of the van. "Douglas, hang on!"

Even from a distance, the answering expression is a textbook reaction to the shouting of Douglas' name — artfully innocent, artificially surprised, and absent a single shred of guilt.

"Martin? What are you still doing here?"

Douglas' own answer to that question is likely the reason behind said expression, but Martin has learned the value of plausible deniability. Mainly by never actually having any.

He sprints across the crew lot and skids to a stop in front of his first officer. "Oh," he says, waving a hand, "just, paperwork and such." Douglas raises an eyebrow, and Martin shifts on his feet. "Also, Carolyn might have asked me to, well, considering the unexpected live cargo, to… stay behind and hose down the hold."

"Ah. And by 'asked,' naturally you mean 'decreed from on high'."

Martin cringes. "Yes, that."

Truth be told, hosing down the hold had been far from the worst part of the proceedings. Checking the mess for his father's signet ring, however, had ranked right up there with corralling two dozen birds through an airport security gate, spending the whole of the flight babysitting a live goose and a dead sheep, and googling various ways to get bird droppings out of virgin wool.

The goose had been rather fond of Finn McCool. Hopefully Carolyn will never notice the chewed bits.

"Martin."

"Hmm?"

"Talented as I am, transparent as _you_ are, even I am not capable of telepathy," Douglas says, and pauses. "Yet."

Martin clears his throat and attempts a smile that feels more like a wince. "Funny thing…" Oh god, he can actually _feel_ himself going red. "Well, as it turns out… I may actually need a lift home."

"And as an alternative, you may actually resort to living in the airport?"

"Fine, yes, I need a ride. My van won't start, Carolyn and Arthur have already gone, and even if I could _afford_ a taxi, they tend to be particular about accepting fares that include a slightly-damp man with two swollen hands, the soiled remains of a captain's uniform, and a goose on a bit of string." He huffs out the last of the air he has left and wonders if he looks as pathetic as he feels. "Do you think you could —"

"Stop you right there? But of course."

"Douglas —"

" _Martin_. On the off chance that it has escaped your attention, my primary vehicle is a Lexus. I am not in the habit of transporting geese in said Lexus. In point of fact, the only acceptable geese allowed within my Lexus are things that are _made_ of geese. Like foie gras. Or fine down products."

"I know, I _know_ , but —" Martin stops short, far more exasperated than he should be for someone in his particular predicament but exactly as exasperated as Douglas Richardson routinely makes him. "Foie gras," he sighs in spite of himself, "is _illegal_."

"To UK citizens far and wide," Douglas says, and smiles. "My Lexus, you'll recall, is _Japanese_ , and therefore enjoys diplomatic immunity."

"That's not," he starts, and promptly gives up, because if there does exist a loophole concerning the consumption of forbidden delicacies in private foreign vehicles, Douglas will have found it. And as Martin needs to gain admittance to that vehicle with a goose that is both unplucked and unpâtéd, it's best to quit while he's… not horrifically behind.

"Fine," he says instead. "Whatever happened to the usefulness of someone owing you a colossal favour?"

"Nothing at all. But I've found that favours have a sort of shelf life. Once you've got enough stockpiled, their usefulness tends to expire."

" _Douglas_. Just…" Fine. _Fine_. It's either begging or the back of the van. In the middle of the crew lot. With a _goose_. "I _just_ need a ride home. Please."

Douglas makes a face, the kind of face he usually reserves for Arthur's edible experiments, but…

"For god's sake, put a blanket down," he says, and turns towards the car. "My car's leather trumps your goose's liver any day of the week."

 

 

**II. Can't Say Boo to a Goose**

The attic isn't a large space to begin with — a tiny table with a single chair, a dormer with a double bed, and a wall of beat-to-hell bookshelves stuffed with pilot biographies and flight manuals and every scale model he's ever found.

Add a live bird in a refrigerator box, and it is tight quarters, indeed.

He'd made it home just in time to see the delivery to cheap Mr. Nichols next door, and traded ten minutes of labor for the empty packaging. Then he'd hauled it up the stairs, laid it on its side, and lined it with shreds of old newspapers and past programs from Duxford. Just the extras. He has to shift sideways to reach any corner of the room, and he can't possibly open his own little fridge without some significant contortion, but all in all, it isn't an entirely bad plan.

It is, however, the full extent of his plan.

He rubs the back of his neck and looks over the edge of the box. The goose inside looks back.

"What am I meant to do with you?"

It fluffs its feathers and shudders. At least he's not the only one at a loss.

It's a curious little thing. _She_ , he supposes. Farmer Fisher had said that much. She'd been eight euros less than any other bird in the bunch — on the small side, compared to the rest, with a jagged row of flights and a tail plucked nearly bald. She'd mostly slept through the short flight from Kilkenny, huddled on the back of a sheep with her head tucked in one wing. And even in the car, wrapped in an old moving blanket and the soiled side of his uniform jacket, she'd been content to sit quietly on the seat and root around in his pocket for stray bits of seed cake.

Douglas had banished him to the blanket as well. At some point, he'll have to see to the state of his trousers.

Her beak roots around in the nest of newspaper, picking up pieces and dropping them again.

Looks like he'll have to get into the fridge after all.

 

 

**III. You Silly Goose**

After the disastrous trip to Tokyo, Martin had been sure they'd never hear from Goddard again. But they've been booked twice since, and the only action the man had taken was to bar both alcohol and apples from the plane.

Arthur was allowed to remain, but it was a near thing.

Since standby is Carolyn's personal nirvana, standby for Goddard in particular, Martin thinks there's an outside chance he may squeak by unnoticed. With a goose.

He is wrong, of course, which is so often the problem with him thinking.

"I am running an airline," she snaps, "not the local petting zoo."

"I've got to be here, Carolyn. What exactly was I supposed to do, leave a live goose alone in my flat?"

Well, yes. But he'd tried that one yesterday, and it had only gotten him glares from half the students and an angry call from his absentee landlord. Basically, it was bring the bird or lose his security deposit. The choice had seemed clear at the time.

Only now, there is Arthur.

"But Mum, MJN could use a mascot. And this one can fly, so it's perfect! We could paint her face on the nose and everything!"

"Arthur, surely you mean 'paint her face on the _tail_ '."

"No, the nose," Arthur says, and looks to the bird in the box in a way that, for Arthur, can only be described as _thoughtful_. "She doesn't really _have_ a tail, does she? And I don't know how good I am at painting geese. But GERT-I's already white like a goose, and she's even got wings!"

Martin snorts. "How novel for an aeroplane."

Douglas hums. "God knows she sheds parts like feathers."

Carolyn glares. "That will do from the peanut gallery, thank you."

Arthur pushes on undaunted, because, well, he's Arthur, and it's quite possible he hasn't even noticed the interruption. "The windows in the cabin are like eyes, a bit. So all she needs is her nose painted orange! You know, all the way round. And I can do that!"

"Says the boy who once passed out cold whilst painting a _toy_ aeroplane."

"I am… almost positive I can do that," Arthur amends. "The bottle said not to breathe the fumes."

"Yes, dear heart," Carolyn says. "Which means 'you may want to open a window', not 'you may want to hold your breath.'"

Martin cringes, more than a little out of sympathy. " _Really_ , Arthur?"

"Yeah," Arthur says sheepishly. "But it worked out, in the end. I didn't die after all —"

Douglas flips the page on his paper. "Spoiler alert."

"— and the plane and I were nearly the same shade of red! I'd never matched my toys before. I made Mum take a picture."

"At the moment I would like a picture of you scrubbing the portacabin," Carolyn says, and herds Arthur toward the door. "Chop chop! Things to do! And you two, sit still and don't add to the menagerie."

Martin picks at his mug of pot noodles, which is slowly going cold, and Douglas raises an eyebrow.

"Enjoying your lunch?"

"Not particularly," Martin says. "Why?"

"No reason." Douglas shrugs, carefully casual. "Just a bit of a departure from your usual. The sad sandwich."

"Yes, well, even sad sandwiches require things like bread and greens, and I am running painfully low on both."

"Are you?" Douglas tuts. "Now that is unfortunate. Mishap with your grocery shopping?"

"Okay, what?" Martin says. "What, _what_ , what is it?"

A shade too defensive, perhaps, but between the innocent eyebrow and the innocuous questions, something scheme-y is coming.

"Nothing," Douglas says, in a way that always means _something_. "Just an exercise in deductive reasoning. Carolyn would like to make money doing nothing without wild animals in tow. You would like to retrieve your father's signet ring without being eaten out of house and home. _I_ would like to fly an aeroplane without a traffic cone at its pointy end."

"And Arthur?"

"Arthur, as history has shown, will find something to like no matter the situation."

"Douglas, whatever it is you're plotting —"

"I am doing nothing of the sort. I am merely _suggesting_ that there may be an obvious solution."

"Well go on, then."

"Perhaps the goose would be better served… _served_. Preferably roasted. With stuffing."

" _What?_ You —" Martin sputters and stops, his voice approximately two octaves higher than Richardson-proof range. "We are not going to _eat her_ , Douglas."

" _Her_ , is it?"

" _Her_ , yes. She happens to be a she."

The she in question has hoisted herself out of the box, and is now steadily waddling his way. He reaches into the sack containing the remnants of his pot noodle packaging and pulls out a piece of potato. Douglas stares for a moment, then rolls his eyes. "Oh, god."

"Well she is! She's a goose, after all. A male would be a gander."

"Martin, listen to me. You cannot keep this goose."

It's serious so suddenly that Martin is wrongfooted. "No, of course I can't," he says, letting her pluck bits of potato from his palm. "Just out of curiosity… _why_ can't I?"

"Because it's a goose!"

"Plenty of people have pets!"

" _Normal_ pets. Normal _people_." She finishes the food in his hand and goes rooting for more in his pocket, and Martin reaches down to ruffle the feathers at the back of her head. "You've already named it, haven't you?"

"I… might have."

"Oh, do tell," Douglas says. "The suspense is positively unbearable."

Martin brushes off his hands and reaches into the bag again — a leaf of cabbage, this time. His last, and a bit wilted, but she doesn't seem to mind. "If you must know, I've called her Wilbur. Just temporarily. I had to call her _something_."

Douglas blinks. "You've named your _female goose_ after… the _male pig_ from Charlotte's Web."

"No!" Martin says. "Well yes, I suppose, but —"

"Goodness. And you say you _don't_ want us to eat it?"

"She's not named for a pig, Douglas! I've called her Wilbur after Wilbur Wright. Inventor of the aeroplane? Pioneer of human aviation?"

"Not _quite_ as tragic as it seemed, then. Perhaps someday we'll return to Kilkenny, reunite her with her long lost sister Orville, and you'll have a matched set." Douglas sets aside his paper and shakes his head. "Are you really planning to keep it?"

"No," Martin says, and looks down to where his temporary goose has settled in for a nap on top of his left shoe. "I don’t think so. Maybe."

"And with _that_ now abundantly clear," Douglas says, "allow me to propose an alternative."

"We aren't going to grill her either, Douglas."

"Duly noted. And since you seem incapable of naming conventions unassociated with spectacular failures of flight, perhaps 'Amelia' would be a better choice."

 

**IV. What's Sauce for the Goose Is Sauce for the Gander**

After six days of standby, Amelia has grown accustomed to the company. Arthur lays trails of breadcrumbs into the grassy area between the runways, and she toddles slowly after him, stopping to eat every few inches. It keeps one of them out of their pockets and the other out of their hair, and even Carolyn seems content with the situation. Though that could still be the standby talking.

"Here's one," Douglas says. "Mother Goose Mixed Drinks."

Martin draws his brows together. "What?"

"'Sing a Song of Sazerac'."

" _Oh_. Um… 'Bum Bum Baileys'."

Douglas nods. "That's a liqueur, not a cocktail. 'For Want of a Rusty Nail'."

"Damn. Okay, uh, uh… 'Wee Willy Whiskey'?"

" _Drinks_ , Martin, not just the alcohol in them," Carolyn chimes in. "Baa Baa Black Russian."

"Nicely done. Though it should be noted that there are no extra points for adding sheep."

"Keep your bloody points. As a matter of fact, I need to speak with Martin."

Douglas raises an eyebrow. "Were you not speaking to him before?"

" _Go away_ until such time as speaking has concluded. Go on," she trills, waving him off. "No doubt Arthur will be thrilled to play with you."

Douglas gathers his paper and gets to his feet. "As no nursery rhyme ever told is a fit for 'pineapple juice', it's sure to be a thrilling experience all around."

Once the portacabin door closes behind him, Martin opens his mouth.

The look on her face makes him close it again.

"Martin, we need to talk about the goose."

"I know, I _know_. But I can't leave her behind, she honks all day if I'm not there and tends to eat my mail. And I've tried looking up how long it takes a large gold ring to pass through a goose's system, but shockingly no one anywhere on the internet seems to have had this happen. Ever."

" _Does_ she eat it? Or are you simply feeding it to her?"

"Well no," he says, more than a little confused by this entire conversation. "It's not _eating_ , technically, she doesn't swallow it at all, just —"

"Tears it to shreds beyond all recognition," she says, and produces the tattered remains of a blank white envelope. It looks curiously like the envelope she'd given him this morning, the one he'd stuck in his flight bag between this month's Duxford mailer and an old book of crosswords. "I found this on the ground outside."

"Oh. I don't… and you think she _ate_ it?"

"Unless it was the sad casualty of a freak lawnmower accident, I fail to see any other explanation." She tosses what's left of the envelope in the bin and pushes back from the paperwork on her desk. "I may not be able to pay you, Martin, but I can certainly help you find paid employment elsewhere. What happened with that private pilot listing I gave you last week?"

Martin blinks. "Is that what that was?"

"Listen to me carefully, now. You need to find another job."

"But… _why_?"

"Why? Because the job you have doesn't _pay_ anything, _can't_ pay anything. You are, for all intents and purposes, a _volunteer pilot_."

"Believe me, I'm well aware," he says. "I can make money in other ways. It's fine. I'm fine!"

"Martin, you have adopted a goose. Does that sound fine to you?"

"That sounds _precisely_ like my life. I love being a pilot. I get to do it here. And I make do with everything else. That's always been fine with you. _More_ than fine, in fact."

"It's never been fine with me. It's just been fiscally convenient."

"Right," Martin says. "And that hasn't changed."

"Decidedly not."

He nods, crossing his arms. "So what you're saying, essentially, is that you'd rather _fold_ than have me here."

"What? Oh, don't be ridiculous. What I'm _saying_ is that my convenient stroke of luck cannot go on forever. We only have room for one child who refuses to leave the nest, Martin, and I'm afraid that space has been long occupied."

There's a twinge in his chest, sharp and sudden. "Carolyn —"

"Now there's a sight," she says pointedly, nodding toward the window. In the grassy stretch outside, Arthur and Amelia are running 'round in a circle, one flapping his arms, the other flapping her wings. He's not sure who's chasing who.

"You should trim her wings. She may fly off otherwise, and take your ring along for the ride."

"I've spent the whole of my life trying to fly, Carolyn, I'm hardly going to stop her doing it naturally."

"Even at the cost of your father's ring?"

Martin sighs. "Even then.

Behind him, Carolyn hums. "She doesn't though, does she? Fly off. Or at all."

"No," Martin says. "No, she doesn't."

Amelia has caught Arthur now — he's sprawled on his back in the grass, and she has scaled him in her victory, head high, wings outstretched.

"No," Carolyn echoes. "I wonder why that is."

 

 

**V. A Wild Goose Never Laid a Tame Egg**

"So kiss me and smile for me, tell me that you'll wait for me, promise that you'll never let me gooooo..."

If the singing weren't already giving him a headache, Martin might be dizzy from the sheer speed of arm movement.

"Arthur," he says, "are you _aware_ that you're singing the words to the song?"

"That's where the karaoke comes in!"

"True," Douglas says, "but it does tend to negate the charades."

"No no, you're meant to guess with both."

"That's not charades, Arthur, that's _sign language_."

"Not really, though. That could be anything. This is all music!"

"Arthur, Arthur, light of my life," Carolyn cuts in, "go and play with the goose."

"Oh!," Martin says after awhile, "I thought of one the other day. 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Shooting Star'."

"Look at that! An actual cocktail."

"Skip, Skip!"

Arthur comes running over, Amelia tucked under one arm. "We were playing — duck duck goose, I was both ducks — and then it was like _magic_!"

He holds out his other hand, and in it is a familiar signet.

"Ah," Douglas says, "the goose that laid the golden ring."

"I cleaned it off for you, Skip. It was a bit... Goosey."

"Thank you, Arthur." He takes the ring and slides it back where it belongs, and Amelia stretches out her neck to nibble at his sleeve. 

 _I don't want a goose friend_ , he'd told Farmer Fisher. Perhaps he'd just needed one, then.


End file.
